


the holiest thing i know

by demios



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Frottage, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, dont. even look at me, halonic guilt, there might be feelings? idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 16:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: Need was a potent thing, indeed, when buried deep under practiced facades.





	the holiest thing i know

**Author's Note:**

> hi, i was enabled. one day i will elaborate on the necessary context behind this pairing but today is not that day

“It’s not that I think less of you, even after all these years,” Zephirin says, attempting to control the way his voice quavers and failing miserably.

Fray gives a quiet laugh, the breath tickling Zephirin’s neck from where they are still focused on his collar. “Really, even after joining the Ward?” 

“It's just - given our current positions, it would likely be disastrous if we were found together.” The elezen gasps, shifting himself closer in spite of his warning.

This was scandalous at best, material for petty gossip passed around the Pillars that he chose to seek out the company of a Brume-born bastard - and deadly at worst, a damning piece of evidence before he was put before the Inquisition for consorting with practitioners of the dark arts. Zephirin does not care for the former, because he is apt at fending off baseless rumors and envious scorn, but the latter does pose somewhat of a complication in the grand scheme of things.

It’s curious how they found themselves here in the first place - _here_ being one of Cloud Nine’s rooms, with the last vestiges of sunlight filtering through the stained window. It wasn't terribly difficult to secure a measure of privacy; coin was coin to Bamponcet and the man ushered them behind the counter without hesitation once a few gil landed on the polished wood of the bar. Zephirin, as an afterthought, considers himself lucky Paulecrain and Grinnaux hadn’t made their rounds yet and caught sight of him in the tavern.

And rightly so - out of uniform and back pressed against the door, he is not Ser Very Reverend Archimandrite nor former Commander of the Knights Templar. And Fray, without armors and free of bloodstains, is just another Brume rat among the crowd, enough of a well-behaved regular that Gibrillont doesn't raise a brow when they're pulling strangers into inn rooms.

 _Here_ is also caged between Fray’s body and arms, a knee shoved between unsteady thighs as they're assailing him with warm lips and the tease of teeth - a predicament that unfolded far too quickly to properly digest. 

There is a distinct lack of inebriation clouding their judgement; Zephirin never nursed more than a barely-touched glass of champagne at mandatory gatherings and Fray never acquired a taste for anything stronger than the occasional, relatively diluted draught. They are both lucid, _painfully_ sober because the sensations are not dulled in the least. Zephirin feels each one in complete clarity when Fray is kissing their way along his neck and jaw. They're too short in comparison to reach Zephirin’s mouth, but what they can reach sets the other’s skin hot and humming regardless.

“Then we’ll have to make sure we won’t get caught, eh?” Fray grins, eyes lurid and feral with mischief before they return to undoing the other. “Don't think too hard on it.”

Fray’s had their fair share of escapades, but none as irksome as Zephirin’s presence. Despite their apparent confidence, there is an underlying frustration in each touch, aether roiling and churning just beneath the skin. They aren't skilled at handling delicate affairs of the heart, as emotionally charged as their occupation was wont to be. How could they, when anything not made of steel or stone was always drowned out by the deafening sound of their pulse.

They're not fully certain this could be even considered as such - they are loath to think on what kind of attachment they have to the elezen, or if they have one at all, after severing what thinning, tenuous ties were left between them. All they know is that the ever holy, ever pious Ser Zephirin is within their grasp and they are _not_ going to let him simply slip away again. At least, for the evening.

If nothing else, Zephirin is pleasing to the eye. Fray counts that as a small consolation as they pull away to admire the flush tinging the man’s cheeks. They can attribute this sudden, voracious need to a quick bell of pleasure between them, never to be spoken of again. Ser Very Reverend Archimandrite is well-kept and meticulously groomed, hair of pale gold delicately accenting ivory skin. His eyes - sharp and verdant - have the same keen gaze that would fix on their every move mid-spar, possessed of a subtle intensity that sends a minute shiver curling around Fray’s vertebrae. The shadows of sleepless nights lingers beneath them, but Fray supposes that is the price one pays to serve the Archbishop’s every bloody whim.

Scars have also done nothing to dampen the appeal of his honed physique. Fray notes each raised seam when they venture a hand underneath his shirt to brush his chest and stomach. Zephirin shifts his weight against Fray’s thigh as they explore and they imagine the way his long legs would be perfect to wrap around a waist, or elegantly bent when pushed into a mattress. The mere thought gives them reason to fist their hands in the material of his shirt and take Zephirin’s mouth for their own.

Zephirin is of a similar state of vexation - his brow periodically furrows as he lets Fray have their way with him because _professionally_ , he shouldn't partake of this. Not because it's Fray - he would still trust Fray with his life _,_ strange as it is - but because this is neither the circuitous dance of politics nor stiff rites of noble pleasantries he has grown to expertly, gracefully navigate. Zephirin can flawlessly deflect the starry-eyed noblewomen inquiring about the state of House Valhourdin. He cannot shield himself from Fray’s piercing gaze of near-luminous gold. They don’t want his modest inheritance, his station to flaunt, or an heir with the same striking features. They want _him,_ down to the rotten core.

Noble etiquette did not cover any of Fray’s overzealous overtures; stories of trusting one’s loins over pragmatism usually resulted in disgraced maids and mewling bastards tossed into the fog of the Brume. They seem to be the furthest thing from a noble, anyways. Unkempt hair, thoroughly scarred, entirely too aggressive and a Fury-damned _thief,_ stealing tender touches and the breath straight out of his lungs. 

But Zephirin does not mind as much as he should when Fray is not giving him an opportunity to discern the source of this rendezvous. In truth, he lacks the resolve to ask. He does not know if Fray is doing this out of pity, or some kind of festering guilt. He thinks _they_ wouldn't like to be pitied, either, always disgusted by the concept of mercy.

Instead he keeps his focus on the matter at hand, already swept up in their pace. His shirt is removed with a bout of hasty fussing, the chilled air of the room leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

“Don't leave marks,” Zephirin rasps when the points of their canines are lightly scraping just above his clavicle, “They'll be seen.”

By _whom,_ he cannot precisely fathom, because the unforgiving climes of Coerthas had him covering every ilm of his body in endless layers. It is a vulgar sort of scene that his mind next conjures, _entirely_ against his will-

_The tranquil privacy of his quarters, himself kneeling with back bowed in prayer, pale flesh of his nape bared for Halone to gaze upon but adorned with another’s fresh marks-_

A hot stripe of embarrassment courses up his neck, a mixture of shame and arousal that is _dizzying._

“You can just tell them you were attacked by a mongrel.” Fray replies into his skin. Zephirin shudders to imagine what someone like Charibert would do with an excuse like that, even in jest. 

“Absolutely _not,”_ His voice is strained to his ears, despite trying to sound moderately authoritative.

They only respond with a cheeky graze of teeth, then shift lower. To a pectoral, then to Zephirin’s sternum, devouring the sound of his crescendoing heartbeat between barely parted lips. 

It continues that way for a time - Fray’s hands and mouth roaming the expanse of his chest and abdomen, with the same calloused palms they used to examine him for injury. The ministrations were never heated out of clinical necessity, but watching Fray repeat the motions with a different intent transfixes Zephirin. They mentally catalogue where he’s changed and where he hasn’t in their time apart, over scars and taut muscle with the brush of warm hands and breath. It sends small, shivering pinpricks throughout the elezen’s body, anticipation kindling low at his core.

Zephirin, in turn, tentatively returns their touches with ones of his own when they are no longer ruthlessly pinning him to the door. A hand winds itself into Fray’s hair, petting the barely-brushed mess of uneven locks. While not as unruly as the wiry spikes of Sidurgu’s hair, Zephirin is of the impression that the edge of a knife or blade was used to remove the excess length rather than a proper pair of shears. It is surprisingly soft, though, and he relishes the pleased sigh it draws from them. 

His hand descends to where stray strands frame Fray’s face, caressing their cheek with long fingers and ghosting over the scars there. Zephirin’s touch drifts towards the lobe of one ear - somewhat rounded and short, hyuran but with a distinct elezen point at the end. He traces along the shell of it, silently intrigued, dragging his finger slowly until he reaches the top of it. A full-bodied shudder courses through Fray at that, and a faint sense of satisfaction curls Zephirin’s lips upwards - that is, until a sharp bite to his hip in retaliation nearly makes him yelp. It is only when they grasp him through the front of his tightening breeches does he fully jolt back from the pleasant haze clouding his mind, limbs weakening from another pang of undiluted heat.

This is edging into dangerous territory, for he hadn't meant for Fray get this far, and with minimal resistance. Zephirin tries to keep the further implications of this tryst buried in the far reaches of his mind. He swore an oath to forgo such _indulgences_ , determined to serve as a paragon of decorum as archimandrite.

It is a personal choice, of course; not all knights of the Ward upheld it with such strictness. The thought calls to mind two of his closest companions, who at least attempted to navigate their stance on the matter tastefully. The furtive joining of hands and mirthful smiles from Janlenoux and Adelphel do not go entirely unnoticed after duties, even if hidden beneath tables and behind doors. When they are alone in one of the Vault’s more modest kitchens, away from prying eyes, the lingering fondness betwixt them is plain in their laughter and chatter.

But this is nothing as gentle - if the spaces between Janlenoux and Adelphel are the comfort of a warm hearth, then what grows between him and Fray is a storm of fire, a veritable rain of dragon spit when every touch singes and sears. 

Halone, forgive him. He should have banished this unbecoming hunger before it could take root. 

Yet one moment he is begging for forgiveness and the next, Fray is guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed and prostrated before him as if _they_ are the beseeching the judgement of the Fury. Seeing them wrench open his legs and drop to their knees makes a surge of arousal coil tight in the pit of his abdomen. 

“Let me service you, Ser Very Reverend Archimandrite,” Fray deadpans facetiously as they fit themselves between Zephirin’s thighs.

Zephirin lacks an adequate rebuttal to the sarcasm. He feels too exposed, vulnerable, and a little ashamed at his need hardening in his trousers. Part of him wants to shrink away, but Fray gives him no quarter, already undoing his fastenings with a shockingly efficient precision. Without prelude, they wrap a hand around the base of his length and begin a steady pace of _stroking_ \- Zephirin lurches forward, a hoarse noise torn from his throat, and nearly folds into himself from the sudden pleasure. Fray swiftly ducks away at the movement, undeterred and pumping his shaft. Zephirin can see the glint of amusement in their eye as he recollects himself. 

The elezen spreads his legs further without thinking, wantonly receiving them. He cannot recall when he last had time to address his desires - not that his duties afforded him the opportunity to even _think_ about relieving himself. Need was a potent thing, indeed, when buried deep under practiced facades.

It worsens when Fray edges closer, warm breath ghosting over his erection as the only warning for what is to come. Fray starts with the flushed head, coating the sensitive tip as they drag their tongue over it. The sudden pleasure practically spears Zephirin, who can do naught but tremble in their hold. They travel down further to lick along the rest of his cock, the flat of their tongue pressing against the vein along its length. A quiet moan escapes him through bitten lips, who feels himself pulse dangerously at Fray’s touch. 

Fray is damnably focused on their ministrations, periodically eliciting barely-stifled noises from the other. It garners an occasional flicker of sharp gold from where they are kneeling before him, their gaze bright and predatory even in such a submissive position. Another jolt harshly courses up the knobs of Zephirin’s spine when it meets his own, in this perverse prayer. Their lips twitch into a knowing smile from where they are pressing a reverent kiss midway down his length. Fray suddenly slows their pace on his cock and pulls themselves away, drawing forth a sigh from the elezen that melts into a whine - only to finally, _finally,_ take the head into their mouth, and do outright _unholy_ things with their tongue.

There is no hallowed shattering of ice ringing in his ears when Zephirin realizes he’s certainly crossed a line - just wet, shocking heat when Fray’s mouth is around him. He weakly cries out, thighs quivering between their head. His hands grasp the sheets, desperately needing something to ground him through the way Fray sucks and prods and _teases._

Blunt nails dig into his inner thigh through the fabric of his breeches as they work, making the flesh underneath tingle and burn. Fray relaxes their jaw and lean forward, taking him deeper as they palm themselves through their own trousers. Arousal swells in the pit of their stomach when the elezen makes a breathy, debauched noise. It is accompanied by an image of Zephirin’s back laid before them on the bed, his musculature on full display to appreciate, trembling shoulders, brilliantly blushing to the tips of his ears and down to his exposed nape, ripe for claiming.

Their cock throbs appreciatively at the image. Well. That could wait until another time.

Because Zephirin is not going to _last_ , amusingly. Fray can feel the way he twitches hot and hard on their tongue, followed by shallow, erratic bucks of his hips that nearly choke. They promptly remove themselves and lick away the drool and pre from their lips.

Another thought flickers through their mind’s eye - one of Zephirin rightly taking what he wants, holding them in place, hands fisted in their hair and roughly fucking their face with abandon. Something that could come to fruition, perhaps, when Fray is feeling more indulgent, or when Ser Zephirin the Just is able to embody even a fraction of the command he holds over the Ward. The quivering mess of an elezen before them now is one they want to pin beneath the weight of their body and _ruin._

The sudden absence of Fray’s mouth feels like a well-aimed hook to the gut and Zephirin gasps when the promise of release is cruelly stripped away. He unconsciously whines at the lack of soft heat around his cock, a terribly endearing noise that Fray does not hesitate to swallow when they're kissing him again, pressing him into the bed in earnest this time. They tug his trousers down, then fully off where they crumple into a heap onto the floor, hastily forgotten by the both of them save for the sudden chill assaulting Zephirin’s legs.

The pale, unmarred skin on the inside of the elezen’s thigh is enticing, and Fray leans in to kiss a featherlight trail down his leg. They start at his knee, down the length of his pale thigh, then finish close to his erection again. Zephirin sucks in a sharp breath at the promise of continuing their earlier affair, and Fray seems to be contemplating the same, eyeing his arousal as they press a last kiss temptingly close to where he wants their attentions.

But Fray simply gives his thigh a harsh nip before righting themselves. Zephirin hisses through grit teeth when their canines sink into tender flesh. The fresh ring of indents comes away distinctly reddened from their overzealous attempt to stake their claim. 

“Fray,” Zephirin warns, his voice rough from arousal.

Fray gives a small snort, clearly unapologetic. “Should be fine if it never sees the light of day, right?”

The elezen spares a second glance at the mark, praying the other’s words would hold true. The obscene sight of it sets Zephirin’s pulse racing, another rush of blood loud in his ears. He has half a mind to reprimand them like one of his men, but any complaint dies in his throat when Fray is ridding themselves of their clothes as well, leaving only their underthings. 

Sid was the one who got most of the bulk from sword-swinging; Fray is leaner, evident by how they depended more heavily on magicks for the strength to cleave through iron and flesh. They've as many scars as him and then some, yet they are drastically different in shape. Where Zephirin has reminders of skirmishes with heretics and the savagery of the Horde, Fray’s body holds the price of their reckless rebellion, their stalwart stand against the will of the See. There is less from crushing jaws and spitfire and more from the unforgiving steel and sorcery of men.

Zephirin recognizes a fair number of them from tending to their wounds, but some were acquired after they parted. His fingers suddenly itch to trace along them, to have Fray divulge every tale behind each one while he soaks in the warmth of their skin - a strikingly inappropriate thought given the way the aether feels charged in the air, somehow even moreso than the guilt that started coagulating in the beats of stillness. 

Once fully disrobed, they shake the bangs out of their vision, giving Zephirin a clear view of their face. The image of Fray with bright eyes and swollen lips is beguiling, and Zephirin cannot help but stare as they eagerly climb the bed with their erection straining against their smallclothes. Before they venture atop him he halts them with a hand on their sternum.

“Having second thoughts?” They grin crookedly, somehow smug even after having Zephirin’s prick in their mouth just minutes prior.

“Might be too late for that now,” Zephirin murmurs absently. He brushes his fingers over the symbol of blood over their heart, branded into flesh from their soul crystal, and feels the vibrations of Fray's thrumming pulse. “It's gotten darker.”

“It drinks deep of the lifeblood of every holier-than-thou bastard that comes swaggering about the Brume.” They shrug nonchalantly.

Soul crystals were mysterious, fickle vessels. Fray and Sidurgu kept theirs close as their most precious possessions, the writhing memories underneath enchanting like jeweled stars embedded in the vast darkness of the firmament. Fray told him of the day Ompagne chanced to come upon two of them for his protégés, and how the damned thing practically scorched them when it carved itself into their skin.

He’d only seen the sigil a handful of times, while tending to Fray’s hurts. Never had he the chance to examine it to sate his own curiosity, to soothe what phantom of pain may linger underneath. Zephirin traces the shape of it with a finger, faintly expecting it to come away stained and smudged with dark blood. Fray has tensed in the same way a coeurl might, prepared to flee or tear into him at a moment’s notice.

Instead, a hand snakes down between his legs and grasps his length. “You’ve got a hard cock between your legs and _that's_ what you want to focus on?” 

Fray gives him a squeeze, one that makes Zephirin shallowly gasp but doesn't draw his attention fully away from the sigil. He wonders idly if he should press a kiss to the branded skin as a parting sentiment, but Fray clicks their tongue, pointedly uninterested in any hesitation Zephirin could foster. 

“It doesn't hurt, you know. Not anymore.” It burned like the Seventh Hell when it first nestled into their flesh, but like any scar, it healed over. 

“That's… good.” He pauses, contemplating what to say next when his impeccable social grace has fled him. “I was worried.” Not entirely a lie, when stray musings about the other would occasionally coalesce in the dark of a moonless night.

The soft, careful touch only furthers Fray’s annoyance, their furrowed brow deepening. They aren't lovers, and there are more pressing matters to be resolved. Fray grasps his wrist, removing his hand. “Enough of that.” They quietly chide him.

A strange and vivid memory passes through Zephirin, as he lies prone with Fray hovering over him. Lush Coerthan grasses in a playful breeze and the fresh scent of spring, all laid out under a vast blue sky - Zephirin feels as though they are sparring like they did in their youth, though this time Fray is the one who's knocked him onto his back instead of the other way around. 

And it is far more _intimate,_ when there isn't armor and steel between them. Zephirin can feel the aether and heat radiating from their skin when Fray slips the hem of their smallclothes down to free their cock of its confines. Their arousal throbs against his thigh and Zephirin flushes, but it somehow relieves him to know Fray is undone as him. The elezen is pliant enough for them to spread his knees, giving them a clear view of the leaking erection resting against his stomach. While they fit imperfectly together because Fray is approximately half a fulm shorter, it works well enough when they line up their lengths, a dash of tongue swiping over their lips. Zephirin swallows thickly, unsure of what to anticipate.

Fray snaps their hips forward and the first movement steals the breath from both of them. From Zephirin, a muted, choked noise, haphazardly killed in the back of his throat; from Fray, a low, granular growl. Sharp jolts travel up their spines in tandem, each subsequent slide growing smoother and slicker from their leaking arousals. Fray establishes a steady rhythm that lacks urgency, their thrusts firm and full. The pleasure is intensive from the first and Zephirin doesn't know whether to tell Fray to _stop_ or hold them closer. He settles for grasping onto their shoulders, an apt position to push them away should the strength ever return to his arms. For now, his hips meet them as best they can with every arc of motion, back arching and deepening the rough, decadent friction.

He should wish this hurried tryst over as quickly as possible, for it was a grave mistake to have succumbed to temptation at all - but he cannot extract himself from Fray’s presence. It becomes clear to him, now, that beneath duty and decorum, he has privately longed for the other in any capacity they saw fit to give him. It feels as though it was in another life they were students to the same enigmatic teacher, tentative comrades yet fast confidants in the odd hours past midnight. A peculiar companionship that rivaled the concept of night and day, when they walked entirely different paths, yet one where they found home in waning twilight and the silent hours before dawn.

They were too young, too foolish and naive then, curiosity tinged with adrenaline or sleepless delirium. And Zephirin doesn’t know if his heart has room for such a thing anymore, but he holds the memories with him, a reminder that Fray was his shadow in the wake of holy light - fleeting brushes of hands and lips, recklessly stolen beneath the shelter of towering Coerthan conifers or in the hushed breath after candlelight faded to wisps of smoke. 

He dares not speak, lest he give voice to such a desire. That seems to be fine with Fray, whose mouth is occupied as they grind against him. Each thrust is accented by kisses to Zephirin’s neck, jaw, the lobe of his ear, then his mouth-

Zephirin stiffens with a gasp, sharply inhaling Fray’s warm breath - there is a sudden shock when they meet, like quicklevin from the edge of Hermenost’s axe. It is not accompanied by something that could be defined as _pain_ , but it is a magick foreign enough to keep Zephirin’s attention when it curls and winds tightly around his core.

“Didn't think that would actually work.” The corner of Fray’s mouth quirks upwards, their expression reeking of mischief when they lightly graze his lip.

Foreign runes bloom behind Zephirin’s eyelids in the same way flowers unfolded brilliantly in a Coerthan spring, striking symbols drawn in ruby blood and dark soot. He knows not how to pronounce or inscribe them but knows intuitively what they represent, their forms calling forth meanings rooted deep in primal instinct. _Communion_ \- not the same that took place in the dazzling halls of the Vault, with faith bleached white as bone, but the one carried out in the dark embrace of a house in the Brume, with creaking floorboards and a finger tracing idle shapes in his palm.

Though he never partook in the rites, he knows it was Fray’s own aether passed to him. The elezen is not entirely a stranger to this - the other’s conjury was imbued with the hint of their essence, when they showed him dexterous hands that could hold the hilt of a sword one bell and mend him together the next. But where the aether of a _cure_ spell is reminiscent of cool, cleansing water, their raw aether is pure heat and desire condensed, teetering somewhere between the frigid bite of ice and the pit of a roaring forge. He feels their arousal through his own, the pleasure increasing twicefold.

He shudders under them when it deepens, his pulse throbbing harshly beneath the skin. Ser Ompagne once described Fray as a frozen lake, and Zephirin supposes the comparison holds true even after all this time. A facade of blackest ice, without give or mercy, holding a drowning torrent when it dares to break. It lasts but a fraction of a second when it surfaces through the cracks, but it's enough to quiet Zephirin, when he can feel the fathomless depth of what yearning they had not betrayed with their body.

It happens periodically without warning, perhaps not fully controlled by Fray when every point of contact feels as though they are spilling over with things they could not say, a voice for this attachment that plagues them in moments between stone and steel. Aether sears into Zephirin like a hot coal, as unyielding as the knight pushing him into the bed. That alone is enough to dizzy him through frantic heat, but it is another matter altogether when the flecks of something softer are woven into each unrelenting ebb and swell.

They could have so easily pierced his heart with the lack of distance - but they are fixed on him with something akin to reverence, gentle, fervent hands holding him and gracing everything laid before them. They press themselves close as if to engrave themselves in Zephirin’s skin and aether, that their presence might survive the flood of empty divinity when he returns to bask in Halone’s radiance. At every crux where one soul meets another, he cannot deny them, not when they've bared this terrible, vulnerable facet of their scarred heart to him without a single word.

Zephirin keeps the shameful noises from slipping out by biting his lip and sighing through his nose, but cannot tear his gaze away from Fray, who is lost in the rhythm of their hips against his, thumbs digging into his pelvis, short pants escaping them with chest heaving and lips parted. They look as though their heart might burst from the confines of their ribs, sigil burning bright to the touch, pleasure mingling with how desperate they are to keep him here.

Zephirin kisses them, a motion that is less than elegant and far from coordinated, acting on an unprecedented impulse that surprises the both of them. It is but a taste of the abyss, a rich well brimming with emotion that makes him moan into their mouth. Scripture always crafted the darkness as something that corrupts the soul, a taint that man must excise lest it corrupt him. But here, the darkness is solid and safe, like the comfort of a worn cloak - a refuge in holy, deafening, choirs. It’s something he might not entirely have a right to, but he so selfishly wants it to taint him, to smother divine light if only while Fray is holding him so tightly. He aches for it, submits to the elusive flame and lets it consume him.

He gives, and they take him into its silent, forgiving fold, feathery wisps of black at the corner of his vision and winding snugly around his core like a tender vise. It culminates fiercely until it peaks - Zephirin’s body tenses when he's caught the sweet beginnings of release surging through his veins. He pulls Fray closer without realizing, legs hitching around their waist and blunt nails digging into their skin, leaving dull crescents. The Fury’s name rests upon his lips, prayers silently mouthed to keep from shattering from the force of it all.

When it becomes too much to bear, Zephirin buries his face into the crook of Fray’s neck, stifling his moans into their pulse. His climax takes him unawares and the shock causes Zephirin to bite on the juncture of their neck and shoulder, hard enough to draw blood, metal bursting over his tongue when he finally spills hot seed onto his stomach. That makes Fray twitch and shiver, and they come shortly after, breathing a stuttered moan, shuddering with their back bowed, furthering the sticky mess between them.

The initial euphoria wanes after a few long beats of gasping for breath. Zephirin’s head feels like an astroglobe spinning carelessly on its axis, through his hazy vision, he can see a ring of indentations with red beads welling up where skin has broken, rust smeared on the skin of Fray’s shoulder. It takes but a moment for prickling dread to form at the back of his neck at the sight, a myriad of consequences flitting through his thoughts at once. 

And _Fray_ \- Fray is already stealing away a thousand apologies when they lick their own blood away from Zephirin’s mouth, keeping the hum of the afterglow contained inside him before it can turn to ice. 

“You taste a bit sweet.” Zephirin notes, now that he can feel the semblance of clarity returning.

“Rolanberry tarts. Rielle’s favorite.” Fray says, immediately absolving themselves of any responsibility. “She insisted I have one before going out to fetch supplies.”

“Then she must be waiting for you.” Zephirin shifts himself so he is propped up on his elbows, already glancing about for his clothes. “You should return to her.” 

“How quickly you are to rid yourself of me.” A near-mirthless smile curls Fray’s lips upwards as they untangle themselves from the other. “Rielle’s a smart girl. She's got Sid, and if anything, she's taking care of him.”

Fray gives a long, satisfied sigh, settling onto the bed next to Zephirin as they bask in the waning pleasure. A sudden fondness overtakes the elezen at that moment, reminiscent of the times they would spend in the fields of Coerthas after giving each other a sufficient number of bruises. There aren't any stars or clouds slowly crawling across the sky to gaze upon, just the scratchy sheets and faint crackle of a hearth. Fray is seemingly quelled as they watch Zephirin expectantly, eyes no longer as bright and sharp as before. 

_Seemingly,_ because Fray’s silver tongue still finds a way to unsettle him in this precious moment of armistice.

“So, what were you saying about not leaving marks?” They ask, gold flicking towards the wound on their shoulder.

Zephirin opens his mouth, finds he lacks anything meaningful to offer, and immediately clamps his jaw shut. He would consider formal apologies one of his fortes given the nature of his office, but he is unaccustomed to such unbecoming acts, let alone how to appease someone as capricious as Fray. 

Moreover, it takes a significant amount of self-control not to simply bury his face in the pillow and will himself to disappear. “My… apologies, for that. If you’ll let me, I can-” 

Haumeric shared with him a few spells for mending wounds in the midst of battle, rudimentary applications of aether that would serve a knight well when they could not immediately see a chirugeon. He makes ready to haphazardly seal the marred skin when he's cut off by Fray.

“I studied conjury, remember? Not well, but enough.” Fray experimentally runs a hand over the area of interest to gauge the severity of it, exhaling a short hiss that makes them retract as if burnt. Zephirin internally winces with them.

Aether gathers at Fray’s fingertips, their spell faintly glowing in their palm as they debate how much attention their wound truly needs. As Zephirin watches, he recalls the wordless plea imparted into his skin and a sudden, frantic desire eclipses his thoughts - that he selfishly wants to be more than a passing memory in Fray’s periphery, more than just another healed scar or rusted sword to be smudged away with a bit of aether.

“Leave it.” The firm urgency of his own voice surprises him, and only when Fray stills does he realize the words had passed his lips.

Fray cocks their head to one side, meeting Zephirin’s verdant irises with a slowly raised brow. “Oh? And what should I tell Sid, if he asks?” 

Zephirin’s throat goes dry again, and he can only return the question with a bitten lip. Shame threatens to consume him until Fray laughs, a warm sound that chases away his anxiety. If Zephirin didn't know any better, he'd say they're finding more amusement in making him squirm than anything they did before.

“Fair enough. I’ve given you a few myself.” They remove their hand, leaving the bite embedded in their skin. The sight of it privately fascinates Zephirin, who finds himself oddly pleased that Fray would bear his marks without a hint of hesitation.

Fray does not ask him to stay, but they do drape an arm over his slightly bruised hip, fingers dancing across the small of Zephirin’s back. It isn't as awkward as he thought it would be, to share slow heartbeats with them again. His hand finds its way into their hair without thinking, mussing it slightly, and Fray only hums at the feeling.

Zephirin waits for guilt to settle in his breast and tear apart his conscience, but it never comes. Not while Fray is here, not while his heart feels the ghost of full when he’d shattered it years prior. The Fury is silent on the matter like the soundless snow outside, as expected - yet he allows himself this one indulgence, after everything. Whether it is blasphemy or unspoken forgiveness, Zephirin tangles himself with them, fitting in the spaces that he left, and takes solace in them for the night.


End file.
